Page 4 of The Girlfriend Card (Vegas Sin #4)

Year-end Bender

Dakota

T he scorching midday sun hung high in a cloudless blue sky when the party started to hit its stride.

All the Vegas Sin boys and girls had a buzz going, laughing, talking, and vibing to the upbeat music.

Some of the guys horsed around in the shallow end of the pool, whooping and shouting as they played a heated game of pool basketball.

In the sparking blue water of the deep end, a group of girls paddled around on colorful rafts and excitedly discussed their summer plans.

I found relief from the heat on one of the many poolside loungers, chilling in the shade of the overhead umbrella. I sipped an ice-cold can of coke, enjoying the day along with all the other guys and girls lounging next to me—when suddenly, a burly voice boomed,

“ Cannonball! ”

Those of us sitting by the poolside collectively cringed when we looked up and saw Tank running to the edge of the pool.

Some tried to get up and run, some tried to shield themselves, but it was far too late—the enormous power forward was already airborne, his knees tucked against his chest. All two hundred and fifty pounds of Tank cannonballed into the water with a thunderous splash, unleashing a forceful deluge of water that drenched everyone in its path.

The raft girls shrieked as the churning waters opened its voracious maw, mercilessly swallowing them whole.

Soaking wet, we erupted with stunned laughter and surveyed the aftermath.

“Close one.” Rust, team captain and host of our party, eyed the wet pavement—the splash nearly reached all the way to his sizzling grill, which he stood behind. “We would’ve had problems if you’d gotten the burgers wet, Tank.”

Clinging to the edge of the pool, Tank chuckled, water streaming down his grinning face. “Man, if I got the burgers wet, I would’ve kicked my own ass.”

“Ugh. Great.” My best friend, Brett, AKA Showtime, flicked water off the screen of his phone. “Your fat-ass cannonball got my phone wet, Tank.”

“Hey, I’m not fat. I’m chubby. ” Tank proudly lifted his chin. “Chubby but effective.”

“Well, you effectively owe me a new iPhone if I can’t get this thing to turn on again.”

I laughed. “It’s a pool party, Showtime.

You might get a little wet, bud.” I reached for my coke can and took a sip.

And y’know, I thought the can felt a little heavier when I raised to my lips, but I didn’t think anything of it—until a warm, salty taste hit my tongue, and I immediately spat it out.

“UGH!” Grimacing, I wiped my mouth and tongue against the crook of my elbow. “You got pool water in my drink, Tank!”

The guys exploded with laughter and the girls squealed, ewwww!!!

Brett smirked. “It’s a pool party, bud. What’d you expect? You might get a little pool water in your sodie-pop.”

“Dude, that’s so fucking nasty.” I groaned and made a quick trip over to the refreshment table to get a new soda. Back on my lounger, I cracked the can open and took a quick swig to make a little room. With shifty eyes, I discreetly pulled a flask from the pocket of my swim trunks.

Now I already know what you’re thinking, so let’s get this out of the way real quick: I don’t have a drinking problem.

And I’m not saying that because that’s what literally everyone who’s in denial about their drinking problem says.

No, seriously—I know I look bad right now, given what you know about me.

But the truth is, I only drink a couple times a week during the season.

Now, do I love to party? Oh, absolutely!

I’m a pro hockey player. We all love to party and get girls.

Hell, that’s why a lot of us wanted to be pros in the first place.

And yes, I know, I made a few certain promises.

And I intend to fulfill every single one of those promises as soon as the off-season officially starts.

Which is tomorrow, if you ask me. Because you’d be crazy if you thought I was going to miss out on our year-end bender*.

After all—and I don’t expect this to happen, but humor me for a sec—if Killer and Capuano actually do trade me?

Then this might very well be my last time hanging with these guys.

And I intend to enjoy my time with my friends, not sit around moping, stone-sober, like some kind of pathetic loser.

* Year-end bender: an annual hockey tradition. After the season ends, but before everyone has gone their separate ways for the summer, the team gets together for one last party to get banged up, maybe air out any grievances, and officially put the season to rest.

I screwed the cap back onto my flask and grinned, thinking I’d gotten away with it again. But as I tried to sneak the flask back into my pocket, Brett’s girlfriend, McKayla, spotted the metal container.

“Hey! Is that a flask? Did you really just pour alcohol straight into your soda can?!” she asked. “Who does that?!”

“Yeah, what the hell?” Brett joined in, grinning. “Why are you drinking like a hobo? And what’s in that flask? Moonshine?”

“Har har. It’s just vodka.”

“Okay, but why aren’t you drinking it out of one of these?” Brett held up his plastic red cup, the same as everyone else was using.

“So it doesn’t look like I’m drinking. Duh.”

Everyone around blinked at me, their expressions blank.

“Dak, bro, who cares? We’re all drinking,” Connor said.

“That’s the whole point of the year-end bender,” Brock added.

“Shh.” I pointed past the mesquite trees and the privacy fence. “You never know who might be out there, watching.”

“Dude gets filmed partying one time, now he’s paranoid for life,” Tank joked, earning a ripple of chuckles.

“Season’s over, Dak.” Rust grumbled, a plume of grill smoke rising all around him. “You don’t have to hide it anymore.”

Isabelle, Rust’s wife, knelt next to me and viewed things from my perspective. “ Who might be watching us, Dak?”

“The Godfather,” I whispered, playing up my paranoia.

“Oh my! Scary,” she said, playing along. “But he can’t hurt you, Dak. He’s just a character from a movie.”

“I’m not talking about that Godfather. I’m talking about the real one. Sal Capuano.”

“The team owner?” Isabelle’s face scrunched with confusion. “Did I miss something? Why are you calling him The Godfather?”

“Because he’s obviously in the mafia.”

“And you know this … how?”

“Uh. His name is Salvatore Capuano. I rest my case.”

“So he must be in the mafia because he’s Italian?” Isabelle rolled her eyes. “You know I’m Italian, right? Am I in the mafia?”

“I dunno. Are you also a connected billionaire who owns casinos all over Las Vegas?”

She giggled. “No, but I wish.”

“Well, there’s your answer. Not in the mafia.”

“If we can set all this fascinating conjecture aside for a moment,” she teased, “I still don’t understand why Mr. Capuano would be spying on you.”

“Maybe Dak got a conky when he fell off that mechanical bull?” Tank joked.

“Nah, I’m not concussed. My thinking is perfectly rational and sound.”

With a sigh, I told them the real story about my talk yesterday with Killer, and the fallout because of that video.

After telling my story, a sense of unease hung in the air, and a number of guys wore their concern on their faces. The question on those guys’ minds was finally voiced when someone asked,

“You didn’t tell Killer we were at Stampede with you, did you?”

“No, I didn’t tell him,” I said, and they let out a sigh of relief. “I’m jumping on this grenade to save everyone else’s ass.”

“Just how many of you numskulls went out before Game Seven, anyway?” Rust demanded to know.

“I want a show of hands.” One by one, the guilty parties—mostly the single guys, but a few taken guys, as well—reluctantly raised their hands into the air.

Rust didn’t like what he saw. “Unreal. Just so we’re clear, this shit isn’t going to fly next season.

The team comes first.” He sighed. “There. That’s my grievance. Now everyone has to take a drink.”

Everyone obliged and sipped their drinks, and any tension in the air quickly dissipated. And that, my friend, is the beauty of the year-end bender.

“But … Dak, aren’t you worried about being traded?” Brett asked, his brows knitted together.

Cale, the youngest defenseman on the team, nodded his head. “Yeah, Dak. Maybe you actually shouldn’t be partying with us?”

“Holy shit. You guys should see yourselves right now. I was just joking about being paranoid before—but you guys really are tin-foil hatters now.” I laughed.

“Look, nothing’s gonna happen. I’m gonna stick around Vegas all summer to work out, just like I promised I would.

And Killer’s gonna tell The Godfather that I’m turning over this new leaf, and I’m settling down because I finally got a girlfriend, yadda yadda.

I’m telling you, I’m solid , baby. Solid. ”

“You have a girlfriend? Since when?” McKayla asked, though she quickly understood once I gave her a wink. “Oh. Oh. Yikes.”

“Dude, Dak,” Brett began nervously. “If The Godfather finds out you’re lying, they seriously might trade you.”

“Or worse, ” Cale added.

“Okay, sure. But how the fuck is he gonna find out?” I asked with a laugh.

“Because it’s not like I’m not committed.

I’m gonna do all the shit they want me to do.

I already canceled my trip home so I could work out with the trainers all summer long.

Trust me, once training camp starts next season, the organization will be very happy with one Dakota Easton.

And if they ask about my girlfriend? I’ll just say we broke up, but I’m still on the straight and narrow. Boom. Easy.”

“Until you end up starring in another TikTok video and everyone knows you’re full of shit,” Rust warned.

“Which is why I’m drinking out of this.” I held up my coke can. “All I gotta do is dial it back a little this summer and I’ll be fine.”